I stared for a moment, then seeing that the man was poking fun at me, I changed my tone and slipped a shilling in his hand.
“Look here,” I cried; “Mr Walters has been very queer and he’s now getting up, can’t you give me a basin of soup for him?”
“Soup, sir! Ah, now you’re talking wisdom. I’ll see what I can do; but to talk about beef-tea just when the butcher’s shop round the corner’s shut up—butcher’s shop is shut up, arn’t it, Tom?” he continued, turning to his assistant.
“Yes; all gone wrong. Trade was so bad.”
“Now, no chaff,” I said; “you will get me a basin of something?”
“I should think so, sir. Here, Tom, strain off some of the liquor from that Irish stoo.”
A lid was lifted off, and a pleasant savoury steam arose as a basinful of good soup was ladled out, strained into another, and then the man turned to me—
“Like to try one yourself, sir?”
“Yes,” I cried eagerly, for the odour was tempting. “No,” I said, resisting the temptation. “Give us hold,” and the next minute I was on my way back with the basin and a spoon toward the cabin aft.
I don’t know how it is, but so sure as you don’t want to be seen doing anything, everyone is on the way to meet you. It was so then. I was carefully balancing the steaming basin so as not to spill any of its contents on the white deck, as the ship rose and fell, when I came upon the doctor, who laughed. The next minute Mr Brymer popped upon me.